


Me and Jesus Don't Talk Anymore

by autoschediastic



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-29
Updated: 2010-01-29
Packaged: 2017-10-06 19:07:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,015
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/56845
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/autoschediastic/pseuds/autoschediastic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>His watch says he's been here for three hours, which is two hours and fifty-eight minutes too long. Sammy's gonna freak.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Me and Jesus Don't Talk Anymore

"Last I heard, you were supposed to be dead, Dean."

Dean smiles, shakes his head. His watch says he's been here for three hours, which is two hours and fifty-eight minutes too long. His stomach does this weird clenching thing, tight and hot and uncomfortable. Sammy's gonna _freak_.

Henriksen doesn't know or care. As far as he's concerned, today's a good day. Icy cold sweat trickles down Dean's spine.

"That's what all those other 'hunters' were saying," Henriksen goes on. A brief shadow crosses his eyes. He can't pull the same old trick of using Reid as stoic, agreeable backup; Reid's long since dead and gone. Just like the guys who couldn't keep their mouths shut.

"Didn't think you believed all that supernatural stuff," Dean says.

There's no window in this tiny little room, but Dean knows the sun's just set. These days, he can feel it coming. They've always been most active at night, him and Sam. Hazard of the job. If they're a little bit more lately, creeping slowly into nocturnal, well. Nothing they can do about it.

"I don't," Henriksen says, oblivious to the doubt in his own voice. "But I think you're a card-carrying member of the crazy club."

Dean snort-laughs. "Cute." He glances down at his watch again. "Look, don't I get a drink of water or something?" Shifting, he rattles the cuffs chaining him to the heavy metal table.

Henriksen says, "Sure, sure," and then his face goes rock-hard, his hands come slamming down with a clang on the table. It screeches across the floor a couple inches, dragging Dean awkwardly forward in his chair. "I leave you alone for five seconds so you can pull another one of your Houdini acts, that it, Dean?" He cants his head to the side, smacks the table again, one-handed. "You look at me when I'm talking to you."

Dean turns away from the reflective glass behind him. The nervous flutter in his stomach is getting worse, skittering out along his limbs, prickling gooseflesh raised on his skin. "You're not sayin' anything I wanna hear."

"Yeah, that so? What d'you wanna hear, Dean? Tell me, I'm curious."

Closing his eyes briefly, Dean says, "Where's my brother?" That shadow comes creeping back across Henriksen's face. "You don't know, do you? You don't have a fuckin' _clue_." Angrily, Dean rattles the cuffs, tugs at them. The table inches closer to him, the panic brewing in his chest bubbles up his throat. "You don't know, you gotta let me go," he says, yanking at the cuffs again, viciously hard. The table skids a good half-foot and Henriksen stands bolt upright, shakes his head at the viewing window.

"Why, Dean? What's gonna happen if I don't let you go?"

Dean's not proud of the noise he makes then, pure animal terror as the heat builds up along his back. He doesn't want to, can't help himself; he looks over his shoulder, sees the air roiling, the glass bubbling. He shouts, "Get down!" a second too late, already on his knees under the table, leather hunched up around his ears.

There's one quiet, gentle pop before the air explodes. Glass rains in on them, slicing red-hot lines over Dean's exposed hands, pattering against his jacket and the table. Henriksen gets out one half-strangled shout before everything goes silent.

Afraid to lift his head, Dean just listens. The air is thick, heavy, viscous. He can feel tiny pieces of glass stuck between the cuffs and his wrists, millimetres away from gouging into flesh.

The table skids towards the wall, dragging Dean with it. He lets out a startled yelp, jerking his head up to see a blur of colour, familiar tan jacket and worn-out jeans. A moment later, Sam's there, brushing glass away, reverently touching his torn hands, his face. The cuffs open with a gentle click.

"Sammy." Air burns Dean's lungs on the way down. "Sammy, you shouldn't've, I woulda-"

"I'm sorry, 'm sorry," Sam says over him. "Your hands, god, Dean, I'm sorry."

Across the room, Henriksen makes a wet gurgling sound. Dean closes his eyes, turns his face away. He doesn't want to see this.

"Henriksen," Sam hisses.

"Sammy, Sam, no. Just get me outta here." Desperate, Dean turns Sam back to him. He leaves a smear of blood near his brother's lips, stark bright red. It looks more real than the black-red spatters staining Sam's clothes. "Hands hurt like a bitch, Sammy."

Sam's face crumples. He gently rubs at Dean's bruised wrists, takes Dean's elbow to help him to his feet. "'M sorry," he says again.

"S'okay," Dean says. He lets Sam pull his arm over one shoulder, lets Sam carry most of his weight though he can walk just fine.

"No, Dean." Sam's voice is hard, rough. Dean looks up but Sam's looking back, coal black hate boiling up in his eyes. "I mean, I really am sorry."

Voice cracking, Dean says, "No, Sammy, don't-" but it's too late, Henriksen is pinned to the wall, gurgling and thrashing, helpless as a beached fish. His eyes are wide, shocked white, fixed on Dean's bloodstained face. His skin splits open like ripe fruit, the noise like wet silk tearing. Dark, dark blood soaks his clothes, the cloth stretching in misshapen lumps where his insides spill free. The whites of his eyes are the last thing Dean sees before he's just so much raw meat.

"Jesus," Dean whispers, shaking. He swallows back the bile searing his throat.

Sam pulls him closer, half-guides, half-drags him through the blood-slick carnage in the rest of the station. He almost steps on somebody's open cell phone before Sam kicks it away.

"I should've got here sooner," Sam says, mouth pressed to the softness at Dean's temple. He breathes deep, scenting Dean like he's done so many times before.

Dean turns away from the stench of death, hating how easy it is to drink down the familiar smell of Sam instead, sweat and motel soap, warm and close and _home_.

He can feel Sam's smile against his skin, in his bones.


End file.
